


The Red Flower

by FauxPax



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Rose Barnes Conspiracy, WS14 fix it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 12:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FauxPax/pseuds/FauxPax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Widow hunt fix it fic. Natasha always thought that her daughter had been born dead but with her history with the Red Room, who can really tell what parts of her memories are real and what was just what they wanted her to believe? When the brutal murder of an ex-soviet scientist comes under investigation Natasha must team up with someone she doesn't even remember to find her daughter. But the Red Room was far crueler then even she could imagine and sometimes there is no healing from that kind of damage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Natasha Romonoff trusted her instincts more then she trusted most people and with good reason. People can (and eventually will) betray you and even the best of technology will fail, but over seventy years of hard living had sharpened instincts into a tool far more valuable then any gadget S.H.I.E.L.D could give her. The sensation of the hair on the back of her neck growing stiff sometimes told her more then any mission brief and it they had never failed her. 

That had been her first clue that something was not right in her apartment. There were no bugs or hidden devices—she had checked—but there were a series of clues so miniscule anyone else would have assumed they were imagined. But she wasn't just anyone and she had acted on less.

Cleaners had wiped her apartment clean if every obvious trace of what they wished to hide but they had missed a few things. A slight rust stain in the medicine cabinet from where a man's razor had rested. A body sized dip in the right side of her mattress, the kind that came from a heavy form sleeping there often. The chipped Captain America mug that had once been a gag gift from Coulson had somehow migrated from the back of the shelf to the front. There were a million other things that all feed into the sinking pit in her stomach. 

There was only one explanation; when SHIELD glued her mind back together after Leo used it as his sandbox, they had left something (someone) out and whoever she lost had been important. Very important. 

She had been unmade and remade enough time to know when she was hearing the echos of an erased truth. Occasionally she would get a whiff of a distinct male sent she couldn't place, a sent that brought images of training mats, metal and leather. Other times she would wake in the middle of the night to see the ghost of a shadow at her window, one armed rested against the sill, looking out over the city. 

Today the itching under her skin was the worst it had been in six weeks. Last night she had dreamt of a dark warehouse. She didn't remember the details but she knew she had had been looking for something (someone) and yet almost terrified to find them. Just before she woke up, she saw a haunting blue light but did not get the chance to investigate.

It wasn't just a dream; it was part of her memories falling back into place. She needed to find him, whoever he was, but more then that, she needed to know why she couldn't remember. SHIELD would not help her. They had been the ones to fix her up so it was likely that they had left him out for a reason.

That hurt her more then she was willing to admit. 

Acid raced through her limbs, eating her from the inside and turning her breath to sand. In the years since joining SHIELD, she had began to trust them, at least as much as her conditioning had allowed her to. It was a spy agency like any other. Secrets and lies permeated the place more then water in the human body, and she accepted that. Hell she thrived in it and yet this was one lie she could not tolerate.

They knew her history and from there it wasn't much of a leap to figure out how she would feel about someone turning her brain to Swiss cheese without reason. 

Another possibility wormed its way forward from the back of her mind. Maybe it wasn't SHIELD at all. Maybe it had been Leo's man that turned her memories into a jack-o-lantern... 

in a way it was a much kinder theory then thinking S.H.I.E.L.D. had betrayed her but it seemed rather unlikely. if that had been the case then why didn't SHIELD put them back when they were deprogramming her?

She needed to find out what had been carved out of her mind and why but more then that she needed a plain. If SHIELD took something from her, then they would not help her get it back and getting caught asking around would just tip them off and yet...

The only way she would know for sure is if she got to interrogate Leo's man. She would make him talk—and yes he would talk; they always did—but that wasn't going to happen...not by official channels at least, not with her personal connection to the case. The only option was to—

A buzz came from her pocket. 

“Romonoff.” She answered, listening to what Hill had to say, her mood growing more and more sour.

Her plains were going to have to wait. There was a mission with her name on it. 

~~~

The brutal efficiency of the double homicide hadn't directly been enough to bring the investigation under S.H.I.E.L.D's jurisdiction, but it had been enough to catch the agency's attention. An eighty-five year old man had been stabbed in the back with a silver plated letter opener, severing his C6 vertebra and rendering him paraplegic, able to breath and speak but almost immobile. He was then severally tortured; most wounds had been to his face and upper torso, the only parts of his body he could still feel. He had then been brutally vivisected and left to die. 

His eight year old granddaughter had been stabbed once in the heart, killing her instantly. 

What made this S.H.I.E.L.D's problem was that Alexi Androv had been more a monster then a victim. Fifty years ago Andorv had been a Red Room technician, one of the men responsible for programing men as if they were machines, implanting mission data directly into their brains and then removing all recollection of it afterwords. 

He had been one of the men to make Natasha what she was and it wasn't necessarily the kind of thing she wished to thank him for. 

“So are you assigned as my new handler?” she asked, not turning to face the footsteps that had betrayed his approach. Her words were half joking. Natasha wasn't a fool, she knew that Hill's failure to assign a new handler to her in the last weeks didn't have as much to do with difficulties finding volunteers as the younger woman would have her believe. Sitwell's death had been a tragedy, but every agent understood the risks. Sometimes things like that happened, even by an ally's hand. 

Nat could read Hill well enough to know what the real issue was. She wasn't quite sure that Natasha had completely recovered from Leo's foray into her mind six weeks ago. By not assigning a new handler, it kept Natasha from most field work despite being cleared by almost every doctor on S.H.I.E.L.D's payroll. 

“No,” Sam said, “Hill didn't assign the case to me, I asked for it.” 

Natasha didn't respond and she could hear the shuffling of his clothes as he fidgeted a bit. 

“I just figured you would need a friend today.”

She kept her face stoic as she turned to face him. He sounded genuinely concerned for some reason but she couldn't figure out why. He either knew something she didn't about this mission or there was something else going on here. 

“It's been a year, Nat, since Bucky...” he trailed off, clearly uncomfortable. Years of pretending to be people she wasn't had taught her how to read subtext and clues and Sam's body language was screaming that she should know this. That she should care. 

“Thanks Sam. I appreciate the thought.” 

She ran her fingers over a blood spattered newspaper on the desk and filed that information away. Bucky—No not Bucky. His name was James...but how did she know that? The news. Right. The story had been blasting on most major news networks for most of the morning. She had heard bits and pieces of the debate. Hero or traitor? 

The real question was why would Sam think she would particularly care. 

The thought ticked the back of her skull and slowly traveled down her spine, caressing her skin like the ghost of something smooth and metallic. There was something here, dancing around the edges of her mind and it would be so easy to dismiss it as a side-effect of the programing but the tickling wouldn't let her. It was like a phantom pain signaling that a limb should be there but wasn't. 

Natasha had been unmade and remade enough times to know that it never felt like all the pieces had been put back together right. She had been haunted for weeks and Sam's words were the first real clue that all the things she had been noticing hadn't just been in her head. 

At least now she had a name to work with although it was unclear how James Barnes, a man who had been dead for a year, had anything to do with her memories problems over the last month and a half but it was a place to start. 

But now was not the time for those thoughts; right now she needed to focus on the case. 

The bodies had already been removed from the room leaving only pools of blood and evidence markers on the floor. Androv's office was filled with antique furniture and thick books, placed in meticulous order on the wall length shelves. It was the office of a man obsessed with knowledge and control...exactly what she would have expected from a man like this.

He considered himself a scientist, so it was reasonable to assume he would be unwilling to part with all the records of his experiments and yet the officers who first secured the scene had found nothing to indicate who Androv's previous employers had been. Those records were dangerous. If they had been found and brought to the authorities, he very well could have been tried for crimes against humanity. They would be well hidden but somewhere he could keep a close eye on them. 

Nat ran her fingers across the spines of Androv's book collection. It was clear that although he had managed to move to the states, he had never completely assimilated into the fold. The great majority of his reading material was in Russian, even the English classics. In fact the only titles that were in their original language were Doyle's Sherlock Homes and although the bindings were in impeccable condition, there was more ware then average. 

If he was such a fan of the great detective...

"Yahtzee." she muttered, stopping half-way across the row. 

"What do you got?" Sam asked coming up beside her as she tilted the volume forward and smiled at the sound of a subtle click. Gears ground together for a few seconds before the book case that slid back to reveal an unlit staircase. 

"How did you know that was there?" 

Nat's lips tugged upward in a smirk."The dust was uneven. You would think he would be a bit more creative hiding his secrets." 

she pulled her gun from it's holster and pulled the clip out, making sure she knew exactly how much ammo she had left before motioning to Sam to do the same. They descended the spiral staircase hugging the wall closely and keeping as quiet as possible. Fighting in the dark was second nature to Nat but the acoustics in the stone hall wouldn’t help. 

A bright blue light came was being cast off from something at the bottom of the steps and Nat got that feeling again: the primal instinct that told her something was very wrong. This time though, it wasn't just apprehension; it was like she was rewatching a horror movie she hadn't seen in years. She was remembered something horrible came next but she couldn't place just what.

The room was relatively empty, furnished with a single desk and a few filing cabinets. But that wasn't what was spinning the lining of her stomach into butterfly wings. In the center of the room was a tank, about eight feet high and three feet wide. It was a sinister looking thing, its defused blue light the only source of illumination in the room. 

"Oh God." Sam whispered over her shoulder but she didn't acknowledge him. 

Almost without realizing it, she lowered her weapon and stepped forward. She didn't remember ever having seen one of these things before but she knew she had; Nat even knew what it was for. 

It was a cryogenic status tank, a device used to preserve living people as if they were just another scientific specimen. He mouth grew dry as she struggled to remember how she knew. This was part of it, the gaps in her memories and maybe—just maybe—if she tried hard enough she could pick up the pieces the Doctors couldn't (or wouldn't). 

The last time she had seen one of these...the last time it was in a warehouse... a red room warehouse...Dark and full of disregarded equipment... She was looking for something...precious that she had lost...that had been taken from her. 

Not something...someone.

Nat reached up and pressed her palm against the tank. For a brief, sicking moment she could have sworn she saw the silhouette of a metal hand press against the glass. She sucked in a shocked breath that sounded a bit too much like a sob for her liking.

“Look Nat,” Sam said reaching out to place his hand on her shoulder, “Let's get out of here. We can get SHIELD to send someone else. They'll understand.” 

She turned her head to look at the Falcon. He had meant it to be comforting but Nat's attention was more on the information he had just given her, even if only unintentional. It was Barnes that had been in the tank in that ghost of a memory. It had been his hand pressed against the glass and he had been what she lost.

But why could she not remember? 

“No, we're staying.” 

It was the only way. She needed more clues to put herself back together again and if she handed this case back to SHIELD, there was no guarantee she would get them. 

Sam eyed her, unsure, but didn't argue. He walked over to the desk and started looking through the papers strewn across it while Nat thumbed through the filing cabinets. 

“This would be a lot easier if I could read Russian.” 

Nat's lips twitched and she reached out, signaling for Sam to place the file in her hands. 

The words on the page swam and for the second time that day, a single sight shattered her world. Ice spread through her vanes like liquid nitrogen, freezing parts of her she had long ago burred and never allowed to come up for air.

This had to be a trick or a trap or something. But if it was, who could have pulled it off and for what reasons? All that knew about that precious bit of her past were either dead or would die before speaking of it. Then again, that was no guarantee that the secret would stay secret.

If it were true...she didn't let herself finish that thought. If it were true it would mean that the Red Room was far crueler then she could imagine. It would mean she had a chance at something she had reserved herself to never having. 

Footsteps fell on the stairs, heavy and loud. She pulled her gun and faced the noise.  
“Nat!” Sam said in warning as the cadet stopped and held his hands up in a defensive gesture.  
She shook it off and holstered her weapon, too distracted to acknowledge that, had he have been a threat, he would have at least tried to be quieter. 

The cadet moved two steps down the stairs, until Sam was positioned between them before speaking. “We finally got a hold of the maid and apparently this guy had the place wired.” 

“Looks like someone didn't trust the help.” Sam muttered, trying to cut the tension a bit. It didn't work. 

“More like he didn't trust himself.” 

“What's that supposed to mean?” Nat asked. 

The cadet shifted his weight around and didn't look at her as he spoke. “Apparently he had early stage Alzheimer and was using the vids to keep track of himself. The whole thing is on film and you're not going to believe this.” 

“You'd be surprised.” Nat said. 

The cadet turned and stared at her, the blue light from the tank casting an eery glow across his face. “No ma’am, not like this.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning guys this chapter is what earned this story the “graphic violence” warning.

Steve shouldn't have been able to sneak up on him, but then again maybe Bucky knew he was there, standing in the doorway of a dive bar in Croatia trying to understand just how his friend had fallen into such a rut. He knew losing Natasha had hit his old friend hard, but he never imagined it was this bad. 

Bucky sat at the only upright table in the place, a semi-clean glass in one hand and a bottle of top shelf whiskey in the other. Bodies littered the floor and Steve couldn't tell if they were dead or had just been incapacitated and he wasn't entirely sure he wanted the answer. 

“I never thought you were this stupid.” It was a harsh thing to say but not unmeant. Bucky had always been known for his half-baked plains, ones that would have almost guaranteed death to anyone who didn't have his luck or skills...but they had always been for something. Every time he pulled one of his stunts it had been a do or die situation.

But this was something entirely different. 

Bucky was supposed to be off grid, completely invisible and dead to the world. It was the only way to keep him safe after his escape from the Russian Gulag and allow him the autonomy he needed to take out the remnants of project Zephyr. Confessing the sins of the Winter Soldier to the families he killed wasn't exactly inconspicuous and the mobsters and thugs he was bearing his soul to weren't the forgive and forget kind of people. That explained the body count. 

Steve watched his best friend, his brother, and wondered with a horrible certainty if the younger man wanted to die.

Bucky drowned the last of his glass and replaced it with the rest of the bottle. “Then maybe you never really knew me, or maybe the guy you knew really did die a long time ago.” 

“Cut the crap, Bucky. You're better than this!” 

The broken man gave a bitter little laugh. “How did you even find me?”

“Fury.” 

Bucky's eyes snapped to Steve's and narrowed infinitesimally. 

“I'll tell you the same thing I told him, I’m not coming in.” 

Steve crossed the bar, carefully not to step on any of the (hopefully) unconscious men and set down across from him. Bucky slid the mostly empty whisky bottle across the table at him. Steve caught it before it fell but did not raise it to his lips. 

"Bukcy we need your help...Nat needs your help." 

"Steve..." a tightness in the younger man's voice betrayed what his poker face wouldn't. From anyone else bringing up Natasha would be a cheap ploy, but he had to know that Steve wouldn't do that to him, not without reason. 

"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important but you're the only one who can find her if she doesn't want to be found." 

Bucky's eyes widened and he seemed more alert then Steve would have thought possible given how much he had drunk. 

"What happened?"

Steve thumbed at the folder in his hands, praying that Bucky would be content with abstractions but knowing his friend better than that.

"Unforseen complications with a case. It hit closer to home than any of us thought possible." 

"You're going to have to give me a bit more than that." 

"Did you know she had a kid in the Red Room?" Steve said, taking out the single granney picture they had of her. On the surface she didn't look too much like Nat but with kids that age it was hard to tell. One thing was sure; she was going to be a beauty when she grew up. Dark hair, gray eyes, and the beginnings of what could grow to be a very striking face. 

Bucky stilled, confusion flashing in him eyes. 

"We didn't really talk about the past much." He whispered slowly after a moment. 

Steve let out a shaking breath and pressed his lips together. During the four hour ride here, he had battled with one question above all else. Just how much would he tell Bucky? The details he had were somewhat scarce, but apparently the Red Room had been far crueler to Nat then even she knew, and the last thing they needed was another Red Room alumni going off on a revenge spree...especially one Steve had been working so hard to clear their name. 

Steve slid the folder across the table and tried to swallow the bile rising in his throat. Since becoming Captain America he had seen a lot of death and destruction but he can count on his hands the number of times it had shaken him to the core like this. The last time he had been looking at the Winter Soldier file. 

“According to what little we were able to dig up, she had a relationship with a soldier stationed in the Red Room. When the kid was born, they told her it had died and they tried to turn it into a weapon they called the Red Flower. Eventually though, they put her in status although we're not sure why. 

"They left her like that for about fifty years and then she somehow came into the hands of an ex-red room technician who decided it would be a good idea to wake her up. His daughter recently died in a car accident and he was in a bitter custody battle with his son in law. There was no indication that his son in law was an unfit parent and Androv had early onset Alzheimer’s , so the courts rejected the case. It looks like he was going to get the Flower to kill him so that Androv could get custody of his granddaughter." 

Bucky's finger froze on the page, his eyes darted back and forth but never really moved, as if he were reading the same line over and over again, and with every repetition his breathing seemed to get more and more labored.

“Bucky?” 

“I need...I need to find her.” he whispered almost panicked.

Was he talking about Natasha or the girl? 

Bucky got up and started pacing, stepping around the bodies as if they weren't even there. For a moment he reminded Steve of that horrible moment just after he had his memories restored. An animal in agony, caged and hurting and yet somehow enlightened. 

“What is it?” Steve asked, his voice taking on the commanding timber he normally reserved for use in conjunction with the shield. 

Bucky ran his metal arm through his too long hair and looked at him, eyes wide and watering like only his could do. 

He took a shaky breath and pointed at the folder. 

“That name— Yasha Yachmenev...” 

He paused for a split second over the name of Natasha's past lover and in that moment Steve's heart fell even further. 

“That was the name they used for my medical records so that they wouldn't link back to the Winter Soldier.” 

It made since. The last thing the Russians would have wanted was knowledge of a weak spot in there weapon—recent broken bones and the like—to get out. It would tarnish the idea of their boogie man being invincible. 

“I need to...” he muttered again. 

This was the last thing Steve wanted to do now. There was only so much even Bucky could take but he needed to know. 

“There's more.” 

“How could there possibly be more?” Bucky hissed, almost afraid of the answer. 

"There's video." 

~~~

The attic had been where it all started and, although there was no camera in the attic itself, the one pointed up the steps caught enough of the action for them to get a relatively clear idea of what happened. 

Sometime late the day before, presumably not long after Androv brought the Flower out of stasis, he instructed her to go up to the attic. Like any good soldier she did exactly as commanded without hesitation.

Androv brought the child one meal but besides that she was left to her own devices until mid-morning when Androv's granddaughter, Sophie, went into the attic. Body language and reports from the house staff indicate that she was not permitted to do so but would sometimes disregard the rules in favor of playing with some of her mother's childhood toys that were still kept there. 

She stayed up there for twenty three minutes before Andorv came looking. He was not pleased to find who she had chosen as a playmate and made such displeasure clear to the Flower.

“I should have known better! I will not have you contaminating my granddaughter.” He said, pulling the Flower down the steps by her hand. She offers no resistance, her other hand gripping the arm of a porcelain ballerina doll, its tutu amazingly white for its age. 

Sophie followed behind them, franticly asking Androv questions but he does not answer. 

“Grandpapa, you said it was okay that I play with mom's dolls! Why are you being so mean? She's my friend! If we weren't supposed to play together, then why did you bring her here?”

As they approached the end of the hall, Andorv, apparently tired of Sophie's questions turned and gave an answer. 

“This creature is not a pet or a friend. It is a rabid animal whom I thought I could control. Now it will have to be put back in its cage where it belongs.” 

The Flower's eyes widened and she grew visually agitated at his words. Neither Androv nor Sophie appeared to notice. 

“You may not understand now, but trusts me when I say, little one, that when you are older and wiser you will thank me,” he told his granddaughter.

He gave the Flower's hand a particularly hard jerk as he pulled her into the office. The force of if caused her to drop the doll and look back at Sophie, the terror etched across her face. Sophie stooped down to pick up the doll and followed them into the office. 

As Androv pulled the Flower closer and closer to the bookshelf, she began to struggle against him, digging her feet into the carpet and clawing rather unsuccessfully at his hand. Giving up on that course of action, she glanced around quickly. 

They passed the desk and she reached out, grasping at a silver handled letter opener. With a quick and practiced hand she drove it into Androv's back. Instantly he let go and slumped to the floor. 

"Grandpa!" Sophie screamed.

"Sophie Run!” Androv yelled into the carpet but it was too late. 

“No witnesses.” The Flower muttered, pulling the makeshift dagger from his back and sending it flying across the room as if on instinct. 

The moment it left her hand, her fingers twitched, willing it to come back. But she had been trained well and it found its target. Sophie's body fell to the floor with a thud and the Flower flinches. 

“You're a monster.” Androv shouts, his face still buried in the carpet. 

“No I'm not,” she whispered, almost unsure, her eyes not leaving Sophie's. 

“Of course you are.” He growled, “What else could I call the thing that killed what I loved most?” 

The Flower bit her lower lip and paused for a moment before grabbing Androv's arm and, with some difficulty, flipping him onto his back. Grabbing him by the back of the shirt she managed to pull him into a half sitting position against the desk. 

“Why her?” she whispered, stooping down so that they were at eye level. “Why does she get to be loved.” 

“Why would I—” Androv's eyes kept darting between the Flower and Sophie's dead body. 

“Not you,” she screamed, punching the side of the desk, “Mothers, daughters, fathers. All family. Why did she get that and I didn't?”

Androv smiled, sensing a way to hurt her despite his helpless position. “Your family didn't exist.” 

“Yes they did. I saw them!” She screamed.

“They gave you to us.” 

“You're lying!”

His smile spread. “Then how come we were able to turn you into a broken, pathetic excuse for a weapon?”

The Flower stopped back, stunned. Her lip quivered and her voice took on a vulnerable, frantic quality that only spurred Androv on more. “I remember them. Mommy used to sing to me and braid my hair and Daddy took me to—”

“Whatever you remember about them isn't real.” 

In that moment something changed in her. The Flower's face hardened into a cool mask no child her age should ever have reason to put on. She pulled the letter opener from Sophie's corps and waved it so close to Androv's face that he could undoubtedly smell the coppery sent of his granddaughter's blood. 

“You shouldn't lie to me. It's not nice.” She said, drawing the tip of the blade against his arm, drawing blood. “My mommy and Daddy love me.” 

She tilted her head, slightly confused that he didn't at least flinch. “You can't feel that?”

After a moment's consideration, she drove the blade into the ball of his shoulder and twists, her smile only growing wider as he screamed and grit his teeth. 

“You felt that.” she whispered, running the blade gently across his lips, forcing him to taste the blood lingering on the surface. “Good, you'll really feel everything if you don't start telling the truth.”

For the first time since Sophie died, he showed real fear, but said nothing. His silence only spurred her on. The Flower walked over to the fireplace and pulled one of the pokers from the rack. It was a bit too long for her to handle gracefully, but she managed. 

It took a few minutes for it to heat up but once it was sufficiently hot enough, she pulled it out and pressed the flat end to his cheek and he screamed. She watched as the flesh began to blister but decided that there was no way to get the precision she wanted out of that particular tool and discarded it. 

“Tell the truth.” she whispered, pulling a hand full of paper clips from the desk and sat on his lap, “or I won't play nice.”

He doesn't answer, unwilling to give her the satisfaction. 

The Flower gripped the handle in her fist like a crayon, and began cutting a Y-incision into his shoulders and down his stomach. He wouldn't have been able to feel much of it, but with the angle his head was propped up, he would have been able to see everything. 

“They didn’t know you exist.” he says, finally giving in. 

She stopped and set the letter opener down and began straitening a few of the paper clips. 

“Your mother thinks you were born dead.” 

“But I’m not dead,” she said confused.

Androv sighed and tilted his head back, trying to look at anything but his granddaughter's dead body and whatever the Flower was doing to him. “We made her forget.” 

“You used the chair?” She screamed, already known the answer. 

He nodded, still not looking at her. 

“And Poppa?

“We made him forget he even met your mother.”

“But...” she began, her voice small, but then her face hardened again. “I told you not to lie.” 

She pulled back the skin of the incision and used the paperclips to pin the flaps back. With almost surgical precision, she reached in and pulled out his guts, careful not to bother the vital organs or rupture an artery. She then set them on his lap where he could see then perfectly and took a step back. 

“Now you're going to die. No matter when someone finds you. The buggies and the germs are going to get you.” She said, picking up the letter opener and walking towards the door. 

“You're a monster.” He hissed, but his voice had lost much of his prior passion. 

She stopped and looked at him one last time. “I'm only what you made me so what does that make you?”

As she walked past Sophie's body she stopped and stooped down. 

“I...I'm...” She begins to say, but can't get out the words. The Flower just sighed, her shoulders slumping, as she picked up the doll, the blood from her hands turning its dress pink, and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having Bucky be called Yasha is something I have seen in a few different fics, but as far as I know, it's not in any comics. I borrowed his full fake name from the Freezer burn series which is on AO3. Read it. Read it now. It is epic and awesome and nothing is better then seeing a ninety year old Peggy Carter calling Bucky out on his shit. 
> 
> On another note, I must apologize about how Steve's section turned out. He seemed to be the best POV character but I just couldn't get his voice right. Our favorite capsicle isn't twisted enough for me to really get into his head. 
> 
> As for the Flower...well I may have had a bit too much fun with that section, but it wasn't without reason. The next chapter will expound on just what the Red Room was up to with her.

**Author's Note:**

> Much credit to Vally over on Tumblr. She has the first few pages of a wonderful fan comic up and that's where I got the idea that someone like Sam, who doesn't know that Bucky is still alive and that she doesn't remember him, is going to eventually mention something. It's one of those things that drives me nuts about comic. Details like that are always brushed under the rug and everyone has hero insurance...


End file.
